


Five Stages

by antithestral



Category: DC Animated Movie Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sort of? - Freeform, you know. all my favourite tags.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: “You got a bat tattooed on your ass,” Barry marvels, almost to himself, the next morning.“Youletme,” Hal growls at him, through the haze of his godawful hangover. It has absolutely no effect on Barry, which is pretty much how Hal’s life always goes.“You got abat,tattooed on your—”Barry shakes his head, choking back horrified laughter. “Wow, dude, Bruce is gonnakillyou.”
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just gotta say fuck it, and start posting the wip. anyway, dont watch the new wonder woman.

**Buck:** According to the Kübler-Ross model, denial is just one of the five stages of grief.

 **Wade Wilson:** Jesus Christ, Buck. No more speaking lines for you.

— Deadpool 2 (2018)

* * *

Six hours later, his hangover mostly eliminated, Hal stares morosely at the tattoo in the mirror. This is actually a bit of work—he has to unbutton his jeans, shove them down, stand facing away from the mirror and then twist around and look over his shoulder to see it. If he stares any longer, he’s going to give himself a serious crick in the neck, but who _cares_. 

_Goodbye, showers on the watchtower,_ he thinks mournfully, _with your endless hot water and perfect pressure._

Goodbye showers in _any_ locker room _anywhere_ , in fact, if he doesn’t want strangers thinking he’s one of those cape-fetish freaks. 

_Goodbye,_ he thinks, staring at the reflection of his own ass with terrible fatalism, _to the best sex of my life._ Because there’s no way he’s letting Bruce ever see this tattoo. Not a chance in hell. 

* * *

  
  
  


All that wonderful determination is shot to hell about four days later, when Bruce catches Hal in the hangar bay of the Watchtower, cleaning out the mess of his small locker at the back of the Javelin into a spare gym bag. 

He hears a soft double-click from near the entrance that indicates the maglocks have been engaged, while he scoops out a pair of fuzzy dice that somehow migrated to the bottom of his locker only god knows when, but he doesn’t realize the kind of trouble he’s in until there’s a shadow crossing into his light, and Hal looks up to see _Batman_ looming over him.

“Oh,” he says weakly. Straightens up. Tries to smile. It probably looks horrible. He stops trying. “Hi.”

“Hello. You’re back.”

“Few days ago,” Hal confirms. His throat feels dry. His heart is pounding.

“Patrol go well?”

“All’s quiet on the Theta front.”

“Good.” And then Bruce is walking him backwards, a palm flat on his chest, curling the other hand around Hal’s waist, and in one smooth, fluid movement, his back is flat against the cool curving metal of the Javelin’s fuselage, leather and body armor pinning him in and Bruce is tipping his mouth against Hal’s, a soundless hum filling his ears, the roar of his own blood, and his hands have found Bruce, the small of his back, the coarse tangle of his hair, and oh _crap_ , oh no, wasn’t there a reason he wasn’t supposed to—

He _definitely_ wasn’t—

Bruce’s hand drops down and squeezes his ass, and Hal groans, too loud, _way_ too loud. The sound echoes out into the cavernous space of the hangar bay, and oh _shit, the tattoo—_

Would it be too obvious if he shoved Bruce away? Maybe he could say he thought he left the gas on in Coast City. That could totally work. That’s not obvious at all. It’s not like he’s making out with a detective or anything. 

Ha-ha.

He’s so fucked.

Or… uh, not.

It’s fine. This is a crisis. Hal’s always been good in a crisis.

“So,” he says, when Bruce pulls away to, god, to kiss his throat, “there’s something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Oh?”

Bruce is distracted, which is why Hal manages to hook his foot around Bruce’s ankle, and twist sharply enough to flip their positions. Bruce slams back into the wall with a sharp exhale, and his mouth curves into a dangerous little smirk. It’s dangerous mostly for Hal’s blood pressure. 

He taps the utility belt. “Off,” he says softly, and Bruce arches an eyebrow.

“I’m curious. In this fantasy of yours. Do I do all the work?”

“In this fantasy of mine, I don’t get _electrocuted,”_ Hal corrects him. He tried taking Bruce’s pants off once. The rest of that night hadn’t been much fun.

Bruce pauses. Hal isn’t sure if he imagines the way those pale, sharp eyes flick away, but then Bruce says, quietly, “You won’t be,” and Hal goes quiet.

It means Bruce coded him into the Batsuit’s sensors. How many people are on that list? How many people has Bruce made himself vulnerable to, in that way? Alfred, Robin, maybe Dr. Leslie. Something sharp hooks into his chest, but Hal fights to keep his voice level. Smiles as he sinks to his knees, unhooking the clasp and tugging down the dark pants. There’s still the lower half of the under armor, the jockstrap, the protective cup. Hal rubs the straining line of Bruce’s thighs through the silvery under armor. That’s fine. He’s familiar with all of Bruce’s layers.

“I’m going to take all this off,” he says softly. Clearly. The air in the Javelin's hangar bay is very still, and it carries sound well, so Hal doesn’t raise his voice at all. “and I’m going to put my mouth around this beautiful cock. And you’re _not_ going to cum.”

Bruce’s hand is against the wall. His breathing is low and steady. But that hand curls into a fist. And Hal smiles.

It’s fine. He’s got this.

* * *

He’s _not_ got this. 

He’s so incredibly, totally _not. Got. This._

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Hal swears, clawing at the sheets, spine arching off the several-thousand dollar mattress, while Bruce attempts to apprently suck all his insides out via his cock. That sounds painful. This is not painful. This is— “Baby, you gotta— Bruce I’m gonna—”

It’s the next weekend after the incident in the Javelin, where Hal succeeded pretty fucking epically at not taking off his pants. Tonight hasn’t been going as well.

Which is to say, tonight has been going _amazingly_ well. Because his pants are off. 

Bruce pulls off of his cock with an obscene pop, mouth raw and red and chapped, and Jesus _Christ,_ ain’t that a sight. He moves lower, tonguing Hal’s balls, hands rearranging his legs, spreading his thighs wider, and Hal lets it all happen, cock aching from neglect, tongue thick in his mouth, buzzed and shaking from how _slow_ Bruce is taking it today.

“Baby…” he says quietly, and Bruce kisses the tense inside of his thigh, three fingers stroking at his hole, slick with lube already, scissoring wide and deliberate. Hal breathes into the stretch, and then there comes that nudge, against his hip, Bruce asking him to turn over. His breath catches in his throat. Bruce did this once, before. Got him slick and wet and open, and then got his mouth right there, rimmed him under he was sobbing, was shivering, fucking desperately into the pillow jammed under his hips, pinned into place, body gone taut and electric. He had come in deep, bone-shuddering spurts, like his marrow had been jolted out and spent from his cock, and it had taken him forever to recover, years and centuries and millennia, just lying there, on that enormous bed, Bruce’s hand drifting lightly over his back, their eyes meeting in the dark. 

Always in the dark. 

“Hal?” Bruce asks, and Hal realizes he had gone very still, and has been that way for a while. 

“Yeah,” he says. Bruce’s hair is a mess, dark hanks falling into his eyes, and Hal probably did that. He definitely did that. He reaches down, touches that soft hair, smoothes it back. His hand is shaking. Why is… 

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and there must be something in his voice, because Bruce doesn’t say a word, doesn’t argue even once, simply surges up and brings their mouths close, and kisses him deep and slow. 

Hal curls a leg over his hips. “Don’t make me wait,” he whispers. “Not tonight, baby. Don’t make me wait.”

* * *

  
  
  
  
  


See? Excellent in a crisis, that’s his middle name. Now if only Hal could stop thinking about Bruce, the way he was that night, the way he looked at Hal, like… like he… yeah, if Hal could stop thinking about that night, that would be _super_. 

* * *

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**anger.**

**Kitty Forman:** Red, there are five stages of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

**Red Forman:** Kitty, I've got two stages: anger, and drinking.

— That 70s Show, ‘Grandma’s Dead’

* * *

The party was in full swing, when Barry snickered into Hal’s ear, “Duuuuuuuuuude, how the  _ fuck  _ does he get lucky even when no one can see his  _ face?” _

Barry’s voice was seven different kinds of slurred—but Hal was an expert at the linguistic finepoints of Drunk!Barry Talk, even though he wasn’t exactly feeling steady on his own feet. Vierenian moonshine was strong enough to tranquilize a horse, and Hal, Barry and Dinah had just worked their way through their fourth bottle. Oliver, who had passed out after bottle number three, was currently napping on Dinah’s lap. It was disgustingly sweet. 

“Who are you—”  _ talking about,  _ Hal meant to ask, and Barry impatiently waved in the direction of the bar, where Batman had been pinned by a trio of Vierenian princesses, one of whom had splayed a long-fingered hand over his chest, a dangerous smile playing about her mouth. 

Hal frowned at them. The only reason the League was here was because the Vieren homeplanet had been attacked by an Apokaliptian scout ship some eighteen hours ago. When the alarms went out, the rest of the Lanterns had still been locked in a bloody war in another galaxy, and Hal had been forced to rope in the League and mount a temporary defense, only to find that the scout ship wasn’t so much  _ scouting _ as it was already  _ terraforming _ the planet. 

The Lanterns had turned up then, and the resulting battle had lasted better part of the day before the remaining, live Apokaliptians were chained up and hauled off to Oa.

Meanwhile, the Vierenians, grateful for the, you know, planet-saving, had thrown the party to end all parties. 

Which was nice. If only they got that kind of reception everywhere they went, Hal figured this superheroing gig would actually start being worth the work. 

The locals were a distinctly catlike species, humanoid if you looked past the vertical slit pupils, the soft, lilac furring of their bodies, and the, uh, six-foot-long tails. Princess number two’s tail was currently wrapped around one of Bruce’s gauntlets. 

Barry whistled. “Go get ‘im, your highness,” he murmured, snickering, but Bruce didn’t look like he _wanted_ to be got. Bruce, in fact, looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

Which was weird. 

When you considered all the rumours about Catwoman. 

Whom Bruce was almost  _ definitely _ still seeing, never mind whatever thing-on-the-side he had going on with Hal.

Which was why Hal really shouldn’t do anything now. It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t like they were…  _ anything  _ to each other, other than reluctant team partners and occasional fuckbuddies. 

He  _ really  _ shouldn’t _ … _

He got up. 

“ _ No _ ,” Barry said, eyes wide with delighted horror. “You are  _ not. _ ”

“Aw come on,” Hal murmured, eyes on princess number—was it  _ four _ , now?—who was starting to get more than a little handsy. Pawsy. Was that speciesist? She  **_had_ ** paws! He turned to Barry. “Lord Vader over there gets to have all the fun?”

“Dude, you can’t get in the way of him and royal, uh,” Barry snorted, “royal pussy _ , _ come on, he’ll  _ kill  _ you.”

“I’m feeling dangerous,” Hal murmured, slapping Barry’s shoulder, and made his way through the crowd, draping himself on the bar, and ordered another one of those blue fizzy things that should have, medically speaking, been reserved for putting down rhinoceroses. He turned to Bats—and the princess-harem, who were all staring at Hal like they wanted to castrate him with a spoon—and put on his best smolder. “Hi there. Great party you got here, your highnesses.”

“Thank you, Lantern,” said princess number one frostily. “If you don’t mind, Batman and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

Hal perked up. “I love conversations.”

“A  _ private _ conversation,” she bit off. 

Bruce had become stone-still. Hal felt a little ebb of sympathy for the man—and stomped it down immediately, and instead, slid an arm around Bruce’s waist, and dropped his head on that massive, armored shoulder. “Anything you wanna tell him, you can tell me too. We don’t keep secrets, do we,  _ sugarplum _ ?”

Hal watched with a vindictive rush of pleasure as her sister’s tail unwound from around Bruce’s _wrist,_ like a manacle unlocking. “You are… together,” said another princess, brow notching in confusion. 

“Till the end of the line, baby,” Hal agreed, picking up his drink and tipping it in her direction before taking a healthy swallow. 

Her expression had hardened. Hal watched her settle back on her heels with the mutinous expression of a six year old who’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I don’t believe you,” she snapped.

“I see,” Hal murmured solicitously. “Please, allow me to explain.”

He twisted, so his back was to the royal coterie, and felt Bruce stiffen up just a little. He arched an eyebrow—a smirk, to anyone else, but Bruce would know what it was: Bruce would know Hal was asking for permission. 

And sure, if Bruce wanted him to stop, Hal would. 

And sure, the embarrassment would literally raze him into a pathetic little pile of ashes right there on the ground. 

And sure, he would have to hire a plastic surgeon, and change his name, and move to Siberia, and never speak to another human being ever ever  _ ever  _ ag _ — _

Bruce kissed him. 

One second he was standing there, with all the Vierenian court, and half the motherfucking League and a good part of the Corps, probably staring right at him, while he made a total ass of himself—and the next second, Bruce had yanked him close and sealed their lips together, hot and hard and too much tooth to be comfortable. _Kissing_ him, with a glove fisted in his hair, and another hand clamped on his ass, and he was being—he finally understood that phrase now—he was being kissed to within an inch of his life. 

Hal groaned harshly, and surrendered into that devastating kiss, touched Bruce through the impenetrable barrier of the suit, cupped his cheek, the only bare skin he could find, the unshaven line of his jaw, ate at that beautiful mouth, the whole world burning away, inconsequential, autumn leaves in an electric storm. 

He couldn’t understand why it felt so good, Why the brakes had come off here and now. Of all the things they’d done in bed — and neither Batman nor the Green Lantern were what you might call lacking in imagination, so it had been some pretty freaky stuff — Hal couldn’t understand why this felt so startling, so vital and blazing and good, and he groaned his pleasure into Bruce’s mouth, whose grip on Hal only tightened, whose mouth only grew hungrier for his taste. 

When Hal finally pulled away to breathe, Bruce’s lips were bruised red, what was visible of his face, flushed. Sometime in the last few seconds, the last of his alcoholic haze had burned off. He could hear the room now, the music and the laughter, could feel the prickle on his neck like a thousand eyes watching. 

“Hal,” Bruce said softly. His eyes were grey, on the edge of blueness, but they were dark now, unfathomable. 

“I…”  _ Oh Christ,  _ Hal thought, and then,  _ so this is what it feels like.  _ Something yawed in his gut, like a rudder wrenching out of position. It wasn’t hard to figure it out, the desperate tightness in his throat that felt like longing. Any teenage girl with a Taylor Swift album could diagnose the nature of Hal’s current problem. 

“Why did you,” Bruce began, and then stopped. “I thought—”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.  _ I didn’t mean to do this. I didn’t mean to put you in this position.  _

_ I didn’t mean to fall in love.  _

“You’re… sorry,” Bruce repeated. 

Even now, Hal could hear the stark inadequacy of his words. Fuck the tattoo. This…  _ this _ would be  _ truly _ unforgivable. 

“Yes, I—” Hal realized his hands were shaking, where they were still touching Bruce. He snatched them away. “I have to go.”

“I beg your pardon?” Whatever uncertainty Bruce had been experiencing had disappeared — the words came out icy, loaded with disapproval. 

“I have to go,” Hal repeated, and then he—  _ eyes on his back, watching him—  _ turned away, and kept his gaze down, and walked out faster than he would’ve thought possible.

* * *

  
  
  
  


“So that tattoo—” Barry began, later, when the League had loaded up the Javelin like tired little campers, staggering off en masse to the bunks at the back, and it was just the two of them left up in the cockpit. 

“No,” Hal said preemptively, to absolutely no effect.

“I really thought you got it as a joke,” Barry continued doggedly. He sounded apologetic, which somehow made it worse.

“It  _ was  _ a joke.”

Hal could feel Barry looking at him, skeptical and worried. “Does Bruce know?”

It was a mark of Hal’s training that his grip on the flight controls remained unaltered. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“What Bruce doesn’t know can’t hurt you, huh?” Barry concluded softly. Hal sometimes forgot — his best friend was a detective too. 

“Shut up.”

“He’s cleverer than I am. You think he won’t figure it out too?”

“Shut  _ up. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> the kubler ross model is bad science, but who cares about that! nobody! yes i'm doing ffnet-circa-2009-style-pop-culture-quote-epigraphs! thank you for reading! 
> 
> this fic will be updated regularly until i run out of updates!  
> please subscribe for said updates!  
> also, if you liked it, please hit kudos!  
> also, [this fic is rebloggable here!](https://ao3feed-batlantern.tumblr.com/post/638682550891626496/five-stages)  
> for more abuse of exclamation marks, and various other forms of punctuation, find me on tumblr @pasdecoeur! bye! xx


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